


Quite Contrary

by Zai42



Series: Gore/Kinktober Prompts [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Disjointed, Nursery Rhyme References, Rituals, Skinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Mary ascends.Prompt: Blood Ritual





	Quite Contrary

_Mistress Mary, Quite contrary,_  
_How does your garden grow?_  
_With Silver Bells, And Cockle Shells,_  
_And so my garden grows_

  
The rhyme dances through the haze of blood and opiates, an older version of the children's nursery rhyme that Mary's mother used to singsong at her. Mary peels another long strip of flesh from her thigh, humming something off-key as she hangs it up to dry. She isn't sure if it's the correct tune for the song in her head, but that is hardly important now. She has to work quickly. Get as much done herself as she can, before her Gerard comes home to her.

  
_Mistress Mary--_

  
Her hands do not shake as she carefully inks the spell into her skin. It would have been easier to do this before the skinning, but it wouldn't have been _correct._ And it must be correct. It must be perfect.

  
_Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary,_  
_How does your garden--_

  
The ink bleeds, catching in the pores of her skin, minuscule rivulets. The timing is difficult but she must get it right, mustn't succumb to human weakness and poison herself too quickly on painkillers. She must wait. She must work. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of thinking of her leathery pages of magic as _her skin,_ anymore. 

  
There are tears in her son's eyes when he looks at her, and _terror._ "Help me," she says, and tries to stand, but he flees, and that more than anything in these past few years of his rebellion _irks her,_ that now, on the precipice of her Becoming, he would run instead of revel in it. Cowardice. Disloyalty. At least, she thinks, he still wept for her.

  
_With Blood and Ink and Flesh and Eyes_  
_And so my garden dies_


End file.
